an' now he drives some place else."

"Lassiter, you knew him? Tell me, is he Mormon or Gentile?"

"I can't say. I've knowed Mormons who pretended to be Gentiles."

"No Mormon ever pretended that unless he was a rustler" declared
Venters.

"Mebbe so."

"It's a hard country for any one, but hardest for Gentiles. Did
you ever know or hear of a Gentile prospering in a Mormon
community?"

"I never did."

"Well, I want to get out of Utah. I've a mother living in
Illinois. I want to go home. It's eight years now."

The older man's sympathy moved Venters to tell his story. He had
left Quincy, run off to seek his fortune in the gold fields had
never gotten any farther than Salt Lake City, wandered here and
there as helper, teamster, shepherd, and drifted southward over
the divide and across the barrens and up the rugged plateau
through the passes to the last border settlements. Here he became
a rider of the sage, had stock of his own, and for a time
prospered, until chance threw him in the employ of Jane
Withersteen.